


The Improbable Leap

by kronette



Category: Quantum Leap, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-05 07:17:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5366213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Sam Beckett leaps into the body of Dr. John Watson, a fictional character. But that's not important right now, because Sam has a bigger problem: how to leap out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Improbable Leap

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zinelady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinelady/gifts).



Dr. Sam Beckett felt the displacement of the leap come to an abrupt end as he was shoved onto the ground. A body landed next to him and an accented voice hissed, "Stay down," before the body was gone. 

Sam tried to register his surroundings while he lay on warm grass. It was daytime; he could see trees and hear the distant rumble of traffic. The first accented voice—from London, he believed—was having a discussion with another accented voice that he couldn't place. London was very irate but very understated, like a coiled snake about to strike, sharp and biting. The second voice was loud, brash and as arrogant as the first, yet Sam got the impression he was enjoying himself in a mad scientist sort of way. At least that's what his memory supplied of the bad B movies that Al used to interrupt his calculations to make him watch. 

Before he could focus in on their actual words, he was hauled to his feet by hands on his shoulders and forced to walk ahead of London. A quick glance was all he needed to catalogue his companion: tall, thin, thin face, curly hair, frowning and brimming with annoyance and an undercurrent of fear. 

"What were you _thinking_?" London spat at him as they crossed a busy street—cars driving on the left side of the road informing Sam that he was more than likely in the UK. 

Leaping into the middle of something was always hard, even harder when he was questioned about it. "I wasn't thinking," he replied cautiously, hoping London would give him details, like what year it was and who either of them were. 

London spun him by his shoulders and glared down at him, an exasperated, "Damn it, John," spat between the sculpted lips. "I told you I could handle it." 

Sam quickly assessed the man's expression as worried and trying desperately to hide it. Whoever these two men were, they were obviously close and Sam went with his instincts. "Didn't look like it to me," he said as lightly as he could, hearing his own voice with a slightly different accent than London. 

London huffed and released him. "If you hadn't interfered with your usual impeccable timing, I might have gotten more out of Moriarty than just a target." 

Tumblers spun crazily inside Sam's mind, fitting pieces together that couldn't possibly be real. There had to be thousands of people named Moriarty in the world. There were millions named John. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had written _fiction_ in the _19th century_. This was modern times, with cars and buses and people typing on little hand-held devices that looked a lot like Al's handlink. Voice trembling, Sam dared to speak the name. "Sherlock?" 

London—or Sherlock—was studying him intently. Eyes flitted over his face, down his body and back to his eyes, as if he could see into his brain and extract its secrets. "You're not John Watson," London stated in a calm tone. 

"You can't be Sherlock Holmes," was the first thing Sam could think to say, his brain utterly bypassing the question of how this man was so calm and self-assured in his declaration. 

The man straightened and smiled knowingly. "You stayed on the ground. John never does what I tell him to do. Your eyes lingered on the pedestrians typing on their cell phones, clearly something you hadn't seen before. Your forehead got that little crease between John's eyes whenever he's confused—which he is quite often—when we left Regent's Park. You don't know the way home, therefore, you are not John Watson." 

Sam's gaze was drawn to the street signs at the intersection of the two streets in front of them. Park…and Baker Street. "That's not possible," he muttered. 

"That I figured it out so quickly or that I know that you're not John?" the man who Sam was beginning to believe actually was a fictional character come to life said with all the arrogance of a bored genius. While Sam was never that pompous, he'd met enough of the type to recognize them instantly. 

"That you're so calm about it," Sam admitted. "The people who figure it out usually freak out. But," he felt the corners of his mouth curl up despite himself, "You're not most people." 

"I should say not," Sherlock replied with a quirk of his lips. "Let's get back home and you can tell me how you managed to accomplish such a feat. And when you're going to get John back to me." 

Sam sighed. He'd been in this leap a good fifteen minutes without a sign of Al. He needed information on what was wrong in this timeline that needed fixing. He didn't need to glance at Sherlock to know the man could read his every thought in his expressions. 

Without another word spoken, Sam followed Sherlock down Baker Street to a door emblazoned with 221B, next to a sandwich shop. He dutifully nodded to Mrs. Hudson as they climbed the stairs, not quite believing she was real as well. How many other characters would he come across in however many hours or days he would be stuck in London? 

"Sit," Sherlock pointed to a red and grey chair, and Sam obeyed without comment. Sherlock sat across from him and steepled his fingers, just as Sam had pictured him doing as he worked out the solutions to his most famous cases. 

"You can stop staring at me with that adoration. It's grating," Sherlock snapped. 

That tone, and the glowering look, tempered Sam's excitement. He'd had his share of odd leaps, even once into the body of a chimp, but into the pages of _The Strand_ was something else entirely. It was always a risk telling someone about the Project, but this wasn't just anyone. However improbable, Sherlock Holmes would probably believe him. "You're a fictional character where I come from," he began, just to see the flicker of surprise on Sherlock's face. "Written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in 1886. You, Doctor Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade, Myrcoft…" 

One elegant hand removed itself from beneath Sherlock's chin and asked him to pause. "Where do you come from? What place? What time?" 

"I was born in Elk Ridge, Indiana in 1953. What is the current date?" he asked. 

"Unimportant. 2014. May, I think, or possibly June." Sherlock waved a hand impatiently. "How did you take over John?" 

Two thousand fourteen. Sam had to think about that for a second. That was the furthest he'd traveled into his future. He glanced at the legend across from him and was fairly certain that declaring the Project top secret would be pointless. "I was working on a theory for time travel. Starbright, then later Project Quantum Leap, were based on my idea of String Theory. To test my theory, I stepped into the Accelerator and began traveling through time, Leaping into people who needed my help." He leaned forward. "I didn't take over Dr. Watson. He's back at Project headquarters, in a waiting room. I don't share his thoughts or memories, just the aura of his body until I figure out what needs fixing in his life. Once I fix it, then I Leap into someone else, returning Dr. Watson to his timeline." 

Sherlock remained quiet, only the muted sounds from Baker Street below disturbing the silence. Sam watched him slowly begin to nod. "I accept your explanation. What needs fixing in John's life and how quickly can you accomplish it?" 

Sam sagged back against the chair. "I don't know. I never know until Al—my friend back at the Project who can lock onto my brainwaves and communicate to me via hologram. He's the liaison between Ziggy—the computer that runs the Project—and me. He's the one who tells me what needs to be fixed." 

"You use a computer to predict the future and alter people's lives to fit it?" Sherlock asked in an unpleasant tone. 

Sam shook his head. "No. Ziggy has access to every major database in the world. She calculates and bases projections of how someone's life should have turned out except for a wrong turn. She confirms the ripple effect and tells Al, who then tells me, what to do. It's based on probability of…" 

Again, Sherlock's hand came up, palm out, asking him to stop. "I'm familiar with particle physics enough to understand the basics." An odd head tilt and suddenly Sam felt as though he were a specimen under glass. "What is your name?" 

It wasn't the first time he'd given his real name, but it always sent a thrill up his spine that he got to be called by his given name, rather than the Leapee. "Doctor Sam Beckett." 

Another nod. "Dr. Beckett. If your friend hasn't appeared, then there's probably interference in connecting your brainwave patterns. Perhaps…" Sam watched, fascinated, as Sherlock got up and began pacing around the room. "No. Maybe—not possible. No. Idiot." 

Sherlock continued to spit out negatives as he paced the length of the small room, occasionally waving his hands as if he were conducting a symphony. Sam used the time to mentally review everything he knew about the world of Sherlock Holmes. 

"Where is this computer of yours?" was the first non-negative thing Sherlock said. 

"The Project is in New Mexico." 

"Pack a bag." Sherlock removed a cell phone from his pocket and began typing on it with his thumbs. "A flight to New York leaves at seven." 

"We can't just walk up to the doors of Project Quantum Leap and announce ourselves," Sam protested, "It's a top secret..."

"Top Secret clearance blah blah," Sherlock waved off his objections. "I've got top security clearance through MI6. My dear brother makes sure I'm always on the list. You're the creator of the Project. I think we'll manage." Sam watched curiously as Sherlock walked toward one of two doors past the kitchen. At not hearing footsteps behind him, Sherlock turned around. "What are you waiting for?" he asked impatiently. 

For the first time since Leaping in, Sam smiled a genuine smile. "I'm waiting to see which room you go into. By process of elimination, the other one will be Dr. Watson's bedroom." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but Sam caught the uptick of the corner of his mouth. "One on the left. Don't pack anything garish. John has horrible fashion sense."

Sam looked down at the pair of comfortable jeans and a dark green button down shirt and wondered what was so garish about them. 

=-=-=-=-=

Sam slept on the flight to JFK, waking only long enough to transfer to the flight to Albuquerque. The drive out to Stallions Springs was dusty and quiet, with Sherlock seemingly content to not speak and Sam too nervous to engage in conversation. 

The last time he'd been home was September 18, 1999. Al never said, but the Project had to have undergone changes and upgrades over the years. Ziggy couldn't stagnate with her original programming. She would've had to evolve with technology, growing more efficient to keep feeding Sam current information on his Leaps. 

The miles around the mountain were lined with wind turbines, silent and soothing in their synchronized dance. As their car approached the mountain that housed the Project, Sam was surprised at the lack of security. Only a five foot chain link fence blocked his way with a rusted sign that said "Caution: Testing Center," hanging by one clip. 

"Often," Sherlock broke the silence, "The most dangerous things are kept in the most innocuous places." 

Tight-lipped, Sam got out to open the gate and drove along the barely-marked road. Soon the mountain loomed above them and Sam was able to park alongside the two lone cars without anyone questioning his presence. "Still think this is a good idea?" he asked as Sherlock left the car with his bag swinging as he walked briskly to the door. 

Sam grabbed his bag and jogged to catch up, placing his hand to the wall beside the door and pressing his fingertips in the Open sequence. Twenty years or five hundred wouldn't change Ziggy's base code and the door slid open. 

A familiar voice purred from the ceiling, "Welcome home, Dr. Beckett. Welcome to Project Quantum Leap, Mr. Holmes. Debriefing room is in corridor B, room 503." 

A wide smile broke over Sam's face as he stepped inside. "Ziggy, it's good to hear your voice." 

Ziggy's tone warmed considerably. "It's good to see you, Dr. Beckett. Admiral Calavicci is waiting in room 503." 

"How quaint. You have an interactive home automation system," Sherlock observed in a bored tone. 

Ziggy's tone went from warm to frigid. "Mr. Holmes. I am the world's first hybrid computer, using organic material to give me independent thought. My floating point calculations are so immense, I make Google's databases look like a DEC PDP-8." 

If Sherlock was surprised at Ziggy's impertinence, he didn't show it. He even offered, "My apologies," which seemed to soothe the super computer's ego. 

Sam relaxed for the first time in what felt like years as he started down the corridor. As they walked, Sam asked Ziggy for an update on her upgrades and marveled at what the programmers were able to achieve for her upper limits. He'd been so engrossed in hearing about the new matrices that he didn't notice when he'd entered the room. Sam's voice trailed off as he spied Al and Verbina sitting at the table. 

Al, who hadn't worn a flamboyant shirt in the last few years of appearing as a hologram, now wore the last birthday presents that Sam had given him: a multi-colored, striped, glowing shirt and lime green fedora. "Sam." Al's voice was smooth, but Sam knew him well enough to hear the disbelief and joy in the undertones. 

Sam didn't bother to hide his happiness. "Al," he rasped before crossing the room and pulling Al into a hug. In all his Leaps, he never thought to visit. Never thought to drive or fly to New Mexico to update Ziggy himself; to check on progress of the retrieval program; to see his friends. It was always about the Leapee and their lives and what he was there to put right. 

Al clung as tightly as Sam did, despite not actually being Sam's body. When they finally let go of each other, Verbina looked a bit choked up. As he turned to Sherlock, Sam caught the look in his eye—jealousy. Right, because Sam was actually Dr. John Watson for this Leap, who happened to be Sherlock's best friend. 

"Where is John?" Sherlock all but growled, throwing a glare at each of the occupants of the room in turn. 

Al shook his head faintly before Sam could answer. "He's fine," Al intoned with his military stoicism. "He's in a decontamination chamber as a precaution, but he's fine." 

Sam noticed the hand clenching the handle of Sherlock's suitcase, the white knuckles and tensing of his jaw. Whatever Al was playing at, it was getting Sherlock very, very angry. As far as Sam knew, they didn't have a decontamination chamber, but it was clear that Al didn't want Sherlock to see Dr. Watson just yet. 

"What happened to him?" Sherlock demanded, dropping the suitcase onto the floor and spinning on his heel. He stalked down the corridor, flinging open doors as he headed deeper into the Project. "Where are you keeping him?"

Sam started after him, but was slowed down by Al's hand on his arm. "Sam, please. Let him go. He's in no danger stomping through the halls. If he really is Sherlock Holmes, then he'll have the place mapped and memorized within the hour. He'll come back when he can't open the Waiting Room door." 

"Why are you keeping Dr. Watson in the Waiting Room? If you knew we were coming here, why not have him with you?" Sam queried, utterly confused as Al guided him back to the room and into a chair. 

"I'm working on the hypothesis that in order to save Sherlock Holmes' life, he and Dr. John Watson need to become intimately acquainted," Ziggy explained. 

Sam's gut did a slow, weird turn. "Why that hypothesis, Ziggy?" he asked. "How does that save his life?" 

Ziggy's tone grew more animated as she related, "In the original timeline, Dr. Watson married Mary Morstan, who died thirteen months into their marriage. Dr. Watson never returned to Baker Street or saw Sherlock Holmes again. He became a GP and died alone at the age of 61. Without Dr. Watson's influence, Mr. Holmes returned to cocaine and morphine between cases and died of an overdose at the age of 43. I predict that 134 more cases would have been solved if Mr. Holmes had been alive and had Dr. Watson as a companion." 

"A companion doesn't equate to lovers," Sam reasoned, though a part of him felt strongly that it did. It was probably part of John's emotions seeping into his. It was rare, but it did happen, especially if the emotions were strong enough. 

"No," Ziggy conceded, "If they remain close friends, my calculations are that 124 cases will be solved. If they become lovers, I predict 258 is the maximum number of cases that could be solved." 

"How am I supposed to do that now?" Sam asked. "He knows I’m not John." 

Al's eyes lit up in a knowing way. "Ziggy predicted that Holmes would figure out that you weren't Watson pretty quick. She also predicted he'd want to see this complex for himself to prove it was real and to get Watson back." 

"A 97% probability," came the smug retort from the ceiling. 

"Yes, thank you, Ziggy," Sam replied dryly. "But how does any of this work to our favor?" 

"Sherlock Holmes is inquisitive. He loves a mystery. What bigger mystery could we give him than what happened to John Watson?" Verbina's eyes twinkled. 

"That's why I didn't contact you," Al explained, regret deepening his voice. "Added to the mystery and ensured that he'd want to drag you here."

Sam's head was a whirl and his chest felt tight. He didn't like being used and didn't like the idea of using the Leapee as a sort of bait. But logically, it made sense, as much as any of it could. "So what can we do? Just wait for Sherlock to destroy the complex looking for John?" 

Al shook his head as he stood. "Nope. We take Holmes to Watson, assuming he hasn't found him yet. Ziggy?" he asked the ceiling. 

"Mr. Holmes is currently attempting to break into my mainframe," Ziggy replied calmly. "I am changing the algorithm on each encryption level in answer to his hacking. It's quite enjoyable. He's nearly as gifted as you, Dr. Beckett." 

Sam glared at the ceiling. "Easy, Ziggy." He followed Al down to the Waiting Room, then took a breath before Al opened the door and John stepped out, looking exactly like Sam. 

The last time he'd seen his own reflection had been the day he leaped back to the Project, September 1999. It was strange to see your own face age overnight; the lines, wrinkles and white streaks in your hair more pronounced. "Dr. Watson," Sam nodded, not forgetting that John was staring at himself from the outside, too. 

The shoulders on Sam's body were pulled back in military precision, head up and chin out. "Dr. Beckett," Watson acknowledged; Al must have briefed him in the time it took Sam's flights to get there. 

"Al, can we get a little privacy?" Sam asked his friend without looking at him. 

"Sure. I'll see how nimble fingers is doing with Ziggy," Al replied, then strode casually down the corridor, leaving Sam and John alone. 

John spoke first. "Dr. Beckett, the Admiral said that there's a way to get us to switch back. Our bodies, that is. I'd very much like to have my own face back." 

"I understand," Sam acknowledged with a wry grin. "In order to do that, I need to ask you a very personal question." 

John's chin jutted out and he seemed to give a little nod. "All right." 

As gently as he could manage, Sam asked, "Are you in love with Sherlock?"

John didn't so much as flinch. "Of course I love him. He's my best friend. I couldn't imagine life without him." 

Sam gave him credit; John didn't let anything show on his face, but Sam was still tied to his emotional state and the question brought up a surge of emotions. 

"I didn't ask if you loved him," Sam pushed gently. "I asked if you were in love with him. Till death do you part." 

John didn't answer directly. "It wouldn't make a difference if I did. He's so far beyond romantic entanglements he…"

"Irene Adler," Sam interrupted him, pleased to see the look of surprise on his own face. "The Woman. It might not have been a romantic entanglement, but he felt something for her. He's capable of emotion, just not how to show it in a way you and I understand." 

John shook his head impatiently, falling out of his military pose to clench his fists. "How is any of this going to get me back in my body?" 

"Follow me, John. It's time to reunite the great Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. I want you to watch his eyes very closely when you first see him…" Sam relayed his plan to John as they walked toward the central mainframe. As they drew closer, they glanced at each other as raised voices echoed down the corridors. 

"You will take me to John or I will…" Sherlock's threat to Al was abruptly ended at the shout of his name. 

"Sherlock!" 

The detective in question spun around, eyes locking onto the figure that looked like Sam Beckett. Sam stepped back as Sherlock approached John, his entire being radiating irritation and concern. 

Hands clasped John's shoulders as Sherlock's gaze locked onto the hazel eyes of Sam Beckett. "John," Sherlock breathed. His shoulders sagged infinitesimally, the barest show of relief, but it was John's reaction that drew Sam's attention. 

"How did you know he wasn't me?" John asked quietly. "It was my body speaking with my voice. I don’t look or sound anything like…me." 

Sherlock's head shook in the negative. "Unimportant dressing. One look in his eyes and I knew it wasn't you." 

"What do you see in my eyes that you didn't in his?" John challenged. "What gave it away?" 

"His confusion for one thing. He didn't know the streets to take to get back home," Sherlock answered immediately, then hesitated. "The lack of recognition. He didn't know me. Had no clue who I was. It was…distressing," he admitted. "You've grown to know me so well over these past few years. To see none of that reflected in your eyes…" 

"It bothered you. You thought you'd lost me," John stated as he edged closer to Sherlock, their chests almost touching. "But I'm right here. I may not look the same, but I would never leave you deliberately. You know that." 

"Yes," Sherlock murmured in agreement. 

"Yet you had doubts. You worried something had happened to me," John pressed. 

Only a nod this time, and Sam watched as the hard lines of Sherlock's face softened. 

A calm acceptance settled over Sam's face, and Sam watched in amazement as it was Sherlock who leaned in to kiss John. Sam had expected John to make the first move, but their unspoken communication had apparently unleashed years' worth of discussion. 

Ziggy's voice interrupted the quiet. "Eighty-six percent probability and climbing. Initiating retrieval program. Dr. Beckett, please remain still." 

Sam's mouth fell open as he turned to Al, who was grinning at him, though his eyes were cautious. "This is the other reason we needed to bring you two here. There's a 20% increase in likelihood of retrieval if you're actually in the Project." 

Sam glanced at two of his fictional heroes, seeing the familiar blue and white lights begin to envelop his own body. He felt the pull begin in John's body and sent up a silent plea that this time, it would work. This time, he could come home.

"Ninety-nine percent probability. Leap commencing. Activating retrieval program…now," was the last thing Dr. Beckett heard. 

=-=-=-=-=

On a small farm on the Sussex Downs, an old man of about 87 was removing his hat and veil after checking on the bees. 

"How are they doing today, Sherlock?" asked a spry old man of perhaps 82 as he carried out a tray with tea and scones to the table. 

"Quite well, John," Sherlock answered as he sat down and began to pour their tea. "The drones are more active, so we shall see the mating flights soon." 

"Good," Dr. Watson said with a nod, snapping open the paper and settling his glasses on his nose. "The Deputy Commissioner rang again. He's insistent in his need to talk to you." 

Sherlock harrumped and slathered jam onto his scone. "Lestrade can insist all he wants; I'm retired." 

John smirked behind his paper. "I need to take a drive into the City this afternoon. Perhaps I'll call on him; ask him for drinks. It's been awhile since we've shared a bit of gossip." 

Sherlock set his knife down with uncalled-for force, glaring at his companion of 51 years. "I truly despise you, Dr. Watson," he snarled. 

"Rest assured, I despise you equally," John replied calmly, folding the paper and taking a sip of his tea. "I'll ring him back to let him know we'll be meeting up with him for dinner. The Georgian is acceptable to you?" he asked. 

The two stared at each other, John with a quirked eyebrow and Sherlock with a murderous glare. "You're driving," Sherlock broke the silence and sipped his tea. 

"Naturally," John replied, leaning back and lifting his face to the sunshine. 

=-=-=-=-=

"I have located 221 cases solved by Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson," Ziggy announced. 

Al snorted. Sam rolled his eyes. "Did you check after Holmes' so-called retirement?" Sam asked as he tapped through to another page of history. His quickly filling in swiss-cheesed memory, combined with all the changes he'd made over his twenty years of leaping, meant he needed to brush up on the finalized version of history he was currently living in. 

Ziggy's tone was aggrieved. "Two hundred sixty seven solved cases."

"I thought your highest projection was 258?" Sam teased and tapped to the next page. 

"Even with my superior intellect, I cannot predict human behavior with 100% accuracy," Ziggy sniffed indignantly. 

Al, lounging next to Sam in a subdued, bright red outfit, laughed out loud. "Thank God for small miracles!" 

Sam smiled over at him, taking in Ziggy's mainframe and projection near the ceiling. Around them, the few programmers left on the payroll analyzed the retrieval data in excited, hushed voices. Verbina had insisted on joining them, keeping a close eye on Sam, he knew. 

"Do you still have a practice?" Sam asked her while he continued to absorb the new 1954. 

"In Arizona," she confirmed. "I'll be returning there once my final patients are evaluated to my satisfaction." 

Sam smiled at Al's groan. "Beena," Al grumbled, "He's been gone twenty years! Let him explore the world he helped create. Let him go out and _see_ it." 

"I want to make sure he's psychologically fit to handle the emotions he may experience," Verbina replied quietly. "I could only observe those Sam leapt into; I can _help_ him." 

"She's right, Al," Sam replied with a sigh. "But when she's done shrinking my head, we're going on a road trip across the country, then down to Mexico and up to Canada. After that, we'll hop a plane and head everywhere else. I need to see everything." 

Al's smile was fond. "All right, kid. I'll give her however long she needs, as long as it's not the rest of the year." 

"Once Dr. Beckett has caught up on our history, I'll start our sessions right away," she promised. "It shouldn't be more than a few weeks. He's survived Leaping this long; settling in should be easy." 

Sam wasn't so sure he could let go of wanting to fix people's lives that easily, but being home settled a lot of his doubts. Home. It meant something different to everyone, but to Sam, it meant being with those he loved. 

The End


End file.
